Amelia
by TaekwondoAssKicking
Summary: Amelia Kirkland is an orphan whose trust has been broken one too many times. Abused in all shapes and forms, as well as neglected, she's learned to fend off for herself. She also refuses to talk. So, what happens when it's discovered that she does indeed have a family? They force her brothers to take her in, that's what. And neither party is happy with the new arrangements. Fem!Eng
1. Prologue

_**WARNINGS:**_** This chapter contains a rape scene, but doesn't go into the actual rape (?). Future chapters may make mentions of it, or even have a flashback or two. Lots of nastiness in the future. Mentions of child abuse—some of which will be graphic. Lots of neglect in the future. And sarcasm, as well as witty remarks (dealing with Kirklands what do you expect duh). Future cursing. And maybe fluff. OK, yes, eventual fluff.**

_**DISCLAIMER: **_**I do not own Hetalia, nor any other references of other stuff that may breach into the story. I own nothing, except the plot**

**Speaking of plot…**

_**PLOT: **_**Amelia Kirkland is an orphan whose trust has been broken one too many times. Abused in all shapes and forms, as well as neglected, she's learned to fend off for herself. She also refuses to talk. So, what happens when it's discovered that she does indeed have a family? They force her brothers to take her in, that's what. And neither party is happy with the new arrangements.  
**

**This thingy (disclaimer) will only appear here, as doing this for every chapter is too much effort. Warning labels may appear depending on the seriousness of the chappie. If I remember, that is.  
**

**Thank you, and enjoy.**

**Prologue, Sort Of (Just Bear With Me Here)**

_Wide, bottle green eyes stared up at the man, the six-year-old child trembling in fear. The boy's mop of blond hair had dried up blood stubbornly clinging on to the fringe. Those monstrous eyebrows could be described as cute, in a way. The boy was a cute one. Those watery green eyes were to die for._

"_N—no!" the child sobbed, the man's fingers digging into the young one's arm. A lecherous grin pulled at the man's lips, eyes glinting with lust. "S—stop it!"_

_Oh, he always loved the ones that begged! The man couldn't wait to dig in~_

_The man dragged the boy into his bedroom, eager. He threw the child onto the king-sized bed. The child kicked him in the gut, making him swear. Angry, he slapped the little bugger in the face, causing the boy to yelp. The boy was going to pay. Dearly._

_The man unbuckled his belt, and pulled down his trousers. _

_The boy rolled off the bed, and tried to make a run for it—but the man grabbed him by the collar of his holed white T-shirt, and threw him back on the bed. The man punched the boy multiple times in the chest, stomach, and shoulders, until the small, undernourished figure became weak. Once the child's energy was depleted, the man undressed the child._

_What he saw, surprised him. And pleased him._

"_Ohh!" he cooed. "I didn't know you were a little girl!"_

_The boy-now-turned-girl glared up at him, tears dripping down her rosy cheeks. _

_Good. He also liked them that way._

"_We're gonna have lots of fun, eh?" the man cooed, lifting up the girl's leg and caressing between her arse cheeks. The girl shivered, breath hitching. The man grinned, and planted a kiss on the girl's private part._

_Oh, how glad he was that his sister came up with this brilliant plan to pay the rent! The government paid the foster parents for the brat's necessities, meaning that neither he nor his sister needed to work anymore! _

_He also got a nice little toy, too~_

_The man licked the child's belly… so soft…_

_Said child whimpered, small fists clutching the bed sheets with such force that her knuckles turned white._

**A/N: Well that was disturbing to write O.O**


	2. Mix-up?

**Ch1. Mix-Up?**

_3:12pm. Somewhere in London, the capital city of Great Britain . . .  
_

A short man in quite the expensive suit and a very bushy mustache studied the papers in front of him. There was a picture on the further right-hand corner, the face of what appeared to be a little boy with messy hay-colored hair and cautious bottle green eyes. He knew that he wasn't a he at all. If one looked closely, then the gender wasn't too obscured… it was all in the eyes, the thin face and soft features. The paper on top read:

**Name: Amelia Elizabeth Kirkland**

**Date of Birth: April 23****th****, 2006**

**Age: 10**

**Parents: Unknown; we know Kirkland is the child's surname. Check Birth Certificate.**

**Medical Record— **(anything under that was obscured, censored over by black inky tape).

There were forty-six more pages, full of information regarding grades, schooling, observations, notes, concerns, foster homes, and orphanages that the child had attended.

The man was somewhat appalled that the authorities had missed such crucial information. It was honestly embarrassing, to cause such a mix-up. The young orphan girl had a family out there, it made no sense to keep her in an orphanage any longer.

Finally! He found a way to get that child out of the system! His brother worked as a doctor back in Southampton, where he treated a little girl with a broken bone and mysterious bruises about a year or so ago. His brother immediately notified him, but nothing could be done. He knew what a sensitive soul his brother was, so he promised to do what he could to get her away. The man kept his promises, no matter what. And here, at last, were the results!

The girl had four older brothers, it seemed. And of age, too! The oldest twenty four and the youngest nineteen.

What a marvelous day!

**OooOooO**

_Back in an orphanage in London . . .  
_

Amelia sneezed. Was she catching a cold…? Fuck, she bloody hoped not. Colds sucked. Or perhaps it was that maybe something else was to come . . .

Hmmm.

She shrugged, then went back to her book.

J.K. Rowling, she decided, was God. Her writing had a way of sucking her inside this new and very interesting world. Oh, she hoped no one disturbed her . . . good thing she found this place up on the orphanage's roof. It was very hard to hold on to 'property' in this orphanage. 30 toys (37% of them broken), 10 books (not in very good condition—many of which had missing pages), and three boxes of crayons (broken, maimed, chewed, and slobbered on). There was a total of 43 entertainment outlets in a building of approximately 314 children under the age of 15. As you may have guessed, it was hard enough to get ahold of one of these toys and nearly impossible to keep a grip onto said toy—what with 313 other children competing and ready to use any means possible to have them. Good thing Amelia was superbly street smart.

She had her ways.

Now, nothing better happen to that hippogriff or else . . .

**OooOooO**

_9:18 am. __Somewhere in a small apartment in an undisclosed location . . ._

Forest green eyes over frowning huge eyebrows looked out the window, a feeling of foreboding sinking into his bones.

"Daniel!" one of the Irish brothers, Patrick, called.

The Welsh brother ignored it.

"Oi, Daniel!" Again, he was ignored. He pouted at being ignored. He didn't like being ignored. Patrick started repeatedly poking the Welshman in the arm. "Daniel Daniel Daniel Daniel Daniel Daniel DANIEL DA—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Owen, the other Irish brother (the older _non-British_ one) yelled. Patrick pouted.

"Noooooooooooooo," he whined. He then poked Owen. Owen punched him. Patrick punched back, missed, and fell over the couch—

"WHAT THE—" . . . and falling on top of Alistair, who had been napping. Alistair pushed Patrick off the couch, causing the younger to sprawl all over the carpet.

"He did it!" Patrick accused as he sat up, pointing accusingly at Owen from the ground.

"DID NOT!"

"DID TOO!"

"SHUT DA FUCK UP, EEJITS! Too damn early . . ."

They yelled at each other a little more, probably waking up the dead in the process. Daniel was forced to abandon his musings on that peculiar feeling when their one and only TV set narrowly missed hitting him in the face, flying over his head. Good thing he ducked when he did.

It crashed out the window, leaving a large gaping hole in the broken glass.

Awkward, dead silence. A dog was barking.

". . . I hope no one was out for a stroll," Patrick piped up. Owen smacked him over the head.

Daniel face-palmed. _Idiots._

Alistair sighed, and lit up a cigar. He, too, had a weird feeling . . . one of change.

And whether or not said change was for the better or the worst, that was up for a toss-up.

**A/N: Behold the Kirkland Sixth Sense ;)**

**Also, chapters eventually get longer. I know****—I've got them written up until chapter 5. Chapter updates by the week, this just once being the exception.**

**Please please pretty please REVIEW~**

**Gimme character analyses and critiques and praises and EVERYTHING~!**

**(Also, story is set in the year 2016 so don't point out that I can't math)**


	3. Tossed Out and Now What

_**Cover image by **_**ziashetalia**_** from Tumblr! Me no own image~  
**_

_**Took me FOREVER to find the perfect picture. Pretend the cloak is a hoodie and behold! Nyaha! :D**_

_**Enjoy~**_

**Ch2. Tossed Out and Now What**

Amelia was thoroughly disgruntled.

Not only was she woken up very rudely by a matron at fuck o'clock early on a Saturday morning, but she was also roughly clothed by said matron and forcefully dragged down the stairs by the wrist before she was coherent enough to even wonder why she was awake at such an unholy hour.

Now, Amelia was an early riser but for heck's sake, the sun wasn't even up yet.

A light chilly breeze blew from up front, gently ruffling her short hair; she shivered and made herself smaller, burying as much as her face into the bulked up collar of her forest green sweatshirt. She shifted a bit where she sat—her butt was getting sore.

It was not only dark outside, but she was also sitting down on top of a suitcase that a different matron had practically flung out the orphanage door, only sparing a sharp "It's got your things" before bolting the door shut.

_Dumb_, she thought fleetingly. She didn't own anything. Just two battered shirts, an extra pair of pants, and some holed socks. And the clothes on her back.

But that's not the point.

The point here was that Amelia Kirkland was thoroughly disgruntled at being woken up at who-knows-what-time and then dumped at the orphanage's doorstep with no explanation other than a firm "Stay here until the car comes."

And that was that.

Amelia waited. And waited. And waited.

She didn't even entertain the idea that maybe for some unfathomable reason she finally got adopted, as this wouldn't be the first time that Amelia found herself waiting atop a suitcase for The Car to come to whisk her away to another abusive foster home or a new orphaned children's home placement. Plus, really, who would want her? No one. It wasn't hard to rule out all of the impossibilities.

Amelia had a sneaking suspicion that she was kicked to the curb as soon as whoever got the message received the go to get rid of her. _Like always, _she thought. No one ever wanted her around, and in most cases, always took the first chance they got to kick her out.

But this early in the morning? That was . . . odd.

Now, this wouldn't be the first time that she was tossed out like unwanted garbage—there was this one foster home where she was kicked out in the middle of the night, suitcase thrown out flying and all—but it definitely was a first for a legal institution to do so. Or, at least, so darn early in the morning that it could also be considered so darn late at night not even insomniacs were alive.

Amelia peered nervously around her. Dark, silent, creepy glowing orange street lights. It didn't matter how many times she had been forced to sleep outside in the past, that orange glow raining down every few paces creeped her out so much it made her skin crawl.

Her face morphed into a stoic mask of apathetic boredness, back and neck muscles tense.

Amelia shook her head avidly. No. She couldn't let things such as fear get to her. She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and lifted her chin in an act of defiance. To whom, that was up for debate, but she held on to her posture like a lifeline.

More time passed.

She waited. And waited. And waited some more.

She jumped as a crazy motorcycle zoomed by at top speed, nearly giving her a heart attack.

Nothing else happened for quite a while. She sat there, on top of her meager belongings, feeling cold as the breeze refused to let up.

**A/N: Sorry that it's so short! They _do _eventually get longer, I swear! **

**Espero veure la vostre opini****ó, xavals!**


	4. What

**Ch3. ****_What_**

The car that the stiff matron briefly mentioned arrived after what felt like hours, coming to a stop right in front of the orphanage as the first light of day barely shone through between the buildings' tight spaces.

It was a dark blue thing, almost black against the dawn light behind.

. . .

If Amelia was kidnapped and brutally murdered, she'll make sure to come back and haunt the living daylights out of whoever thought this was a good idea.

But, then again, it could be worse.

Right?

The door pertaining to the driver's seat opened and was shut by a dark chocolate-skinned middle-aged man in a suit who had a bald shiny head and a golden earring on one ear. Amelia stared, body and limbs tight against the cold. The man studied her, and, finding what he was looking for, nodded his head in her direction.

"Amelia Elizabeth Kirkland, age 10, number 103586A, British citizen?" his voice flowed smoothly, each word spoken with a foreign flatness with little grace. American?

She hesitated. Well, the orphanage was obviously expecting this. She nodded, eyes on the man at all times. The man made an odd sound at the back of his throat. In one smooth motion, he opened the passenger door. "In you hop," he said simply. Amelia once again hesitated. She stared at the black hole also known as the inside of the car, then stared back at the man. The back of her neck became hot and her heart beat more audibly in her chest. Her hands were clammy and disgusting.

She wanted to run and hide, anything but being alone with a man in a car.

_Seven-year-old Amelia trailed after Mr. Pritchard like an obedient little child, her eyes bowed down, staring at the man's sneakers. Mr. Pritchard had been Amelia's foster parent for about a year now, and she lived with him and his sister. The Pritchard siblings talked about what kind of beer they should buy, all the while going down the aisles of the supermarket putting items into the red basket that Amelia carried around. The child had a nasty-looking purple bruise on her cheek, and even more of them hidden underneath her scraggly overlarge clothes. _

_"__Hurry up!" Mr. Pritchard snapped. Amelia quickened her pace, having fallen behind once again; it was hard to keep up with her short, clumsy legs, basket awkwardly pressed against her flat stomach. She pressed the basket harder into her stomach. The pressure helped somewhat to silence her hunger growls. _

_They waited in line. Some of the people behind them wrinkled their noses, and commented how the boy in front stank to high heavens. They glared, some laughed. Amelia's lip trembled, but other than that, nothing. She was ashamed. Humiliated. Scared. The line moved at a painfully slow pace. The weight in her arms lessened. The Pritchards paid for their stuff. They left, Amelia carrying the plastic bags, trailing behind the pair without looking up from the ground. _

_The plastic bags swung around her legs in a steady rhythm. They were going down a small hill, towards the parked car. She stumbled. A bag caught her legs. With a surprised yelp she fell face-first into the ground, slid down a bit. Her nose. Grimy dirt and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Her knees._

_A rough hand pulled her up to her feet, and her wobbly legs and skinned knees found it hard to support the rest of her body. She hacked, trying to get rid of the dirt stuck to her saliva. She brought her cut-up hands up to her nose; it was wet. Her eyes were watery, a natural reaction of the body._

_She was slapped, the smack sounding loud to her ears._

_There was yelling. She didn't know what Mr. Pritchard was saying. Her heartbeat pounded loudly in her chest, her head thumped at its beat._

_One of the bags had ripped, spilling its contents. _

_More yelling. She was forcefully dragged by the arm, nails digging into soft flesh. The car. Passenger seat door was opened. She was tossed inside, her body hitting the semi-hard seats. Something, the thing that kept the seatbelt strapped in, dug into her hip. _

_Mr. Pritchard's blotchy red face came into her view. He crawled inside. The door closed. A chorus of baritone _clicks _told her that all doors were locked._

_Mr. Pritchard leaned close to her ear, hot breath heavy on her face._

_"__Make any sound, _any _sound at all, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life."_

**Warning****: mature adult sexual content beyond this point. Look for bold text at end if thou art sensitive.  
**

_Mr. Pritchard stood on his knees, _

Thump badump thump badump _her heart raced, her breathing labored. She kept her mouth zipped tight, her petite chest rising up and down exponentially faster._

_He unbuckled his belt._

Thump badump thump badump _her stomach crawled._

_With some effort, due to the tight space, he slid down his trousers—he wore white boxers with red hearts dotted all over._

Thump badump thump badump

_He slid down his boxers, exposing himself. A large cock budged out, balls at its roots. _

Thump badump thump badump_ she shut her eyes tightly, unable, knowing what was coming next. _

_She stiffened as hot, sweaty hands slid under her white T-shirt, touching her young skin. They ghosted over her stomach, over her hips, under her lower back, up her back, over her shoulder blades, back down, rubbing the bones of her hips that jutted out. As Mr. Pritchard touched her, she remained dutifully quiet, not a peep escaping her cracked lips._

_"__You love this, don't you?" he cooed, one hand straying over her underdeveloped and non-existent breast. He squeezed—hard. She gasped. He slapped her again, so hard that her head turned, exposing the other cheek. "What did I tell you about sound?" he whispered. His thumb and index fingers pinched her nipple. Her back arched, her body keeping the moan in. "You love this. You love this so much, don't you, you little slut. You whore. Because that's what you are: are dirty little whore."_

_She whimpered. He slapped her again. _

_Mr. Pritchard kept playing with her nipple, pinching it as hard as he could in irregular intervals. Amelia's cheek's were flushed, her breathing had slowed down to labored, deep breaths. _

_"__Look sis, look at her. She's just laying down there, not doing anything. The dirty whore wants it, doesn't she?"_

_Ms. Pritchard laughed. Amelia wanted to cry. They were right. She wasn't being held down or anything. She laid there, unmoving, willing her body to not even squirm at the man's touch._

_"__Hey, don't get_ too _rough with the whore_,"_ Ms. Pritchard's mocking tone greeted her ears. "She still needs to clean up the house!" she cackled. "I have a new game just for you, cunt."_

_Amelia, this time, did squirm._

_Her arms were forcefully pulled over her head, wrists crushed under the pressure of Mr. Pritchard's burly hand. She winced. The man growled, but instead of slapping her, he threw his mouth upon her into a long, suffocating, bruising kiss, his wet tongue deep inside her throat, making her choke. She tried to move away, but her hands were pinned down. Her whole body was pinned down, being crushed by the man on top of her. _

_Her stomach growled, gut shrinking within itself. _

_Mr. Pritchard ended the kiss, and smirked._

_"__Aww look the dirty slut is hungry! Maybe I should feed her my milk, eh?" he cooed, his unoccupied hand fingering the baggy pants that barely clung to her hips. "Yes. You want some of my milk, don't you, you whore?" He paused, thinking. "Maybe later," he grinned. Trepidation clung to her gut. He removed her pants, and got rid of her underpants. He slid a finger inside her pussy, making her shiver. He grinned. "You are so wet, hot and wet you are." He removed the finger, the feeling disappearing. "Open your mouth," he ordered. She complied. He stuck a finger in her mouth. It tasted salty. She hated it, it repulsed her. "Suck." She sucked. She remembered what happened the last time she refused. He removed the fingers from her mouth, a trail of saliva following his fingers. He touched her stomach. He licked it. "So soft. . ." he murmured. His fingers found her clit. He pressed. Her breath hitched. Bodily fluids ran down her thighs. _

_Suddenly, the finger was gone. What. . .?_

_She was roughly flipped on her stomach, her arms re-pinned over her head. Fingers ghosted over her stretched stomach, over her breasts—a squeeze—they ghosted down her body, to her thighs, over her exposed bum. _

_"__We're going anal today, whore."_

**END OF SEXUAL CONTENT HERE**

_Silent, hot tears slid down her flushed cheeks. Amelia buried her face into the seat. It smelled like days-old sex._

Amelia sat stiffly in the passenger seat while the American shoved her luggage in the car's trunk. She buckled up with trembling fingers, then hid her hands inside the pocket of her sweatshirt. She clasped hands within the tube-like pocket, trying to give herself comfort. The American entered the car, and buckled up. His hazel eyes looked out of the rear view mirror.

He started the car. The car moved.

_SCRUCRASH! _Amelia jumped and the American swore as they successfully backed into a trashcan. The American switched to Drive and they sped away from the scene of the crime.

"That never happened." Hazel eyes speared her through that rear view mirror. Amelia's eyebrow twitched. Americans. Atrocious driving skills, those people had.

They drove in silence, the city landscape zooming past as the sun graced London with its presence after what seemed like a long night. Amelia's heart regulated to a more normal pace, though it was still slightly faster than usual. The man was too busy driving and avoiding any other accidents to try anything. Light annoyed noises emanated from the American's throat every now and then, muttering something about the "wrong side of the road."

Amelia, under different circumstances, would've loved to set eyes on the London scenery; she seldom got to go outside, but when she did, she rather liked to explore the bustling city. The orphanage had a series of field trips every week of which Amelia loved. As the other children are put into groups, Amelia always slipped out and went to do her own thing, and when the time came to leave, she snuck back, no one ever the wiser.

She particularly loved museums. Other children stared at the exhibits, grew bored, and moved on. Amelia liked to study every inch of the exhibit, read the history behind it, think about it, and tried to put herself into history's shoes. She found it fascinating and interesting. Her favorite memory was when they got to go to Buckingham Palace, and she strayed behind.

Let's say that she ended up in . . . places that she wasn't supposed to be in. Fine piece of architecture, that was. Museums were a safe place. She never felt safer than when she was gazing at a knight's sword, at a painting of past Kings and Queens, or at old photographs of Winston Churchill.

No, Amelia wasn't admiring London's wonders at the moment. She was busy sitting stiffly and staring at the driver. She didn't trust him. She trusted no one. And she didn't know where the American was taking her. Another foster home? Probably. And seeing her past track record, she wondered how long she'll be with them this time. The longest she's ever spent in a home was three years, but usually, it was constant moving around. Like a hot, unsavory potato-tossed around without a destination in mind. Not that before those three years she was better off.

Amelia decided that she should start preparing herself mentally again. She was stuck in a circle of abusive/insane foster homes. She wondered where they were shipping her off to. She hoped that her new family only had supreme drug issues. Maybe they'll be in a trance 24/7. Her time with those morphine addicts when she was eight in Bristol had been the smoothest—granted, they ended up getting evicted (despite the money they got from Amelia's stay but that went to the addictive drug) but at least she was left to her own devices.

The constant vomit-and-unknown-substance fumes had been a down last time, but she could live with having her head stuck out a window for a few weeks.

And that was a best case scenario.

And at that moment, Amelia noticed something peculiar. They were at . . . the airport? What? OK—? She blinked. A large plane, engines roaring, appeared from beyond in a diagonal trajectory, white smoke trailing behind the tail. She stared. OK. So she was going to . . . Northern Ireland? Scotland maybe? She briefly remembered her short stay in the Scottish highlands. Beautiful countryside. Not-so-beautiful orphanage.

They pulled in. The American maneuvered the vehicle with careful precaution, looking for a parking space. Ah, there. He parked the car. Amelia took that as her queue to unbuckle herself and get out. The chill greeted her.

The American popped to her side with her suitcase, making her jump.

_Don't do that! _her glare seemed to say.

"Follow me!" the American signaled. He moved in the general direction of the airport, taking with him the ten-year-old's suitcase. Amelia scrunched up her eyebrows; she could do that herself! She huffed, but did nothing about it. She just followed the bald man.

It took a few minutes to arrive into the actual airport building. They entered through the glass revolving doors. Amelia marveled at the shiny spacious place, the way that it was lively with the hustle and bustle of people—many of which weren't speaking English. She gaped at her surroundings, eyes roaming every single bit of airport that she could find. She's never been to such a large airport before.

"Don't fall behind, kid." Amelia forced her eyes to unstick from, well, everywhere, and ran (in a very dignified manner) to catch up to the American, whose strides were long and brisk.

The next hour or so went by in a blur. They waited in line for a while to get the luggage checked in ("This weights barely nothing!") then did some jogging ("Traffic made us a bit late, kiddo") they waited in yet another line, got her flight confirmed, the American filled out some legal papers ("Minors going unaccompanied on a plane require—") and finally arrived at customs. There, Amelia proceeded through the metal detector and ended up on the other side on her own. The American wasn't allowed beyond that point ("Take care, kid"). Instead, a young lady in a stewardess uniform was in charge of her well-being from then on out.

She scoffed at that. Well-being.

Amelia followed the lady, making sure not to lose sight of her; it wouldn't be an accomplishment, getting lost in this sea of hysterical people. She followed close, but not _too _close. They walked at a hurried pace—much like everyone else—until they arrived at, Amelia noticed, what appeared to be Gate 19.

"Have a seat sweetie. Boarding won't happen in another 45 minutes."

She stared._ You have GOT to be kidding me. And don't call me sweetie!_

The lady left. Amelia sat on a plushy bench. Each bench was composed of about ten stuck-together chairs, ten more stuck-together chairs also stuck on the other side. There were many rows, all off by the side, next to Gate 19. Next to the Gate, a huge window pane went from ceiling to yet another row of seats. You could see the planes, planes with different company logos imprinted upon their metal bodies. The weather was gloomy and grey. It looked like a plane graveyard.

Amelia stood up and moved to a seat in front of the glass window pane. She didn't want to admit it, but she wanted a better look at the planes. They were cool. She sat on her knees, elbows leaning on the seat recliner. She studied the plane closest to her, the one whose doorway was stuck to Gate 19; her own. She admired the plane's tail, which had the beautiful British flag. British Airways. And it looked . . . quite large. It was a very large plane.

Why was it a large plane? Last time it was a much smaller plane. Amelia was confused, if not a tad nervous.

"Oh! There you are." The stewardess lady was back, with what looked to be an apple juice box. "Here you go, sweetie. Now, behave will you?" And off she went again. Amelia sat on her bum, juice box in hand. Oh well. Might as well. She unstuck the straw and took off the plastic wrap. She stabbed the straw into the hole and drank the liquid in slow sips.

She watched the people go to and fro while she sipped the sweet-with-a-hint-of-bitter juice.

Time passed. People started filling up the seats. A couple sat beside her. Amelia moved to a different, less populated location. The empty juice box was tossed in a trashcan by a wall.

One of the men at the podium in front of Gate 19 approached her and gave Amelia her boarding pass, copy of ticket, ID, and British Passport. "As an unaccompanied minor, ye will board the plane first," he informed her in this toned down Scottish accent. "Follow me, lad." It's _lass _but—oh, never mind. People confused her for the other gender all the time anyway. Amelia hopped down and followed the man a bit further than at arm's length. He returned to his position behind the podium. Amelia saw the microphone upon it. She also noticed that she was the only unaccompanied minor, as they usually went in as a group.

"Boarding pass and ID, please." She handed them to the man, and the man nodded, matching the passport picture to her face. She also gained a raised eyebrow when he checked that the names also matched. "Ye hae seat 32A, Tourist class. When yer plane arrives to yer destination, stay put. Dornt move. A flight assistant will come get ye. Enjoy yer flight." He handed back what Amelia needed. She nodded, and started going down the tube-like cave when—

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man turn on the microphone and, rolling his eyes, spoke into it in a perfect English accent.

_"__Gate 19 will now permit passengers to board the plane; I repeat, Gate 19 to New York City is now permitting passengers to board the plane."_

She froze.

What.

She must've heard wrong, surely—

_"Transatlantic flight, __Gate 19 to New York City, is now permitting Group 8 into the plane."_

_What._

_WHAT!?_

**A/N: Duuuuuuudes! I found an awesome website ( _DOUBLE-U X3 whohoo DOT co DOT uk _) that when you type phrases in, it comes out in a Scottish accent! There's a thingy for the Irish accent, too! Among other things! Check it out! :D  
**

**Yeah, screw you too, FFN. Why u eat website address? :l**


	5. The Trip From Hell

**A/N: Hellooo this chapter can be rated K+ so no worries~**

**Ch4. The Trip From Hell**

If this had happened a decade ago, Amelia was positive that she would've died a slow, painful death.

She was very lucky. Lucky that her impromptu trip across the Atlantic, even if it was by Tourist Class, also included her own, individual little touch-screen multiple activity TV. Every passenger had said screen embedded in the seat in front, for which Amelia was eternally grateful.

How else would've a child survived the eight hour flight from London to New York City?

She. Would. Have. _Died._

Everyone had with them a small travel bag, which they kept on their persona at all times. They brought along books, handheld video games, homework, music devices, laptops, among other things to keep them entertained during the long flight—heck, one family even had a bunch of puzzles and small-sized travel board games!

And what did Amelia have? Nothing.

Which was why she was so fucking grateful that this happened to her in the year 2016. What would've she done for eight bloody hours? Sit there with a dumb look on her face, in complete denial because _what she was going to America? _Try to get a look at the sea of clouds underneath the perfect blue sky, but failing spectacularly because the person with the window seat slept with a pillow over it? Excessive trips to the bathroom because there was nothing else to do? Get into a glaring competition with the kid behind her that _kept kicking her seat no bloody stop it?_ Stab moodily at the poor excuse of a kid's dinner with a plastic spork? Sit in the dark while everyone else slept, not being able to do so herself?

OK, yes, she _did _do all of that. Her touch screen was a bit . . . broken. But at least she managed to kill an hour or two and a half with a movie. Thank God the screen wasn't _all _broken. Though being stuck in the Kidzone was a major 'bloody hell this sucks' moment. She forced herself to watch **Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwreck**. It was either that or listen to that baby cry its lungs out for God knows how long. The music channel was muted, for some reason. And the games didn't work, except the Hangman Junior, which was _boring. _

The first two or so hours were spent in an unresponsive stupor. One hour was spent silently freaking out—she says an hour because that was how long it took for someone to _notice _that she was freaking out. She basically stared wide-eyed at some space right in front of her, pale, clutching the pillow-and-blanket-in-a-plastic-bag close to her chest, barely breathing. A stewardess tried giving her coke to calm her down, catch her attention. It did not go as planned. Not only did she have coke about three times in her entire life, but coke was an _American product_, whose reminder actually made her start hyperventilating a bit. Amelia finally calmed down half an hour later, when finally they gave her the _correct _drink: tea. For thirty minutes, the plane's staff had ran up and down looking for something to help her stop panicking. For the remainder of the flight, a steward or stewardess would come by and ask her if she wanted more hot tea. Amelia declined most of the time, but did take the delightful stuff when night descended upon them.

Amelia spent twenty minutes trying to come to terms that she was, indeed, going to America. To keep her mind occupied and away from such stress-inducing thoughts, she decided to make use of the screen; she tapped on the icons, discovered that she was stuck in the Kidzone, and then became increasingly desperate when the screen became unresponsive. It took her another twenty minutes to figure out what worked and what didn't, twenty minutes which were spent tinkering with the device—she wasn't very good with technology, and ended up huffing and sulking angrily at the impertinent thing. Finally, she was able to make one of many movies play. Did she enjoy it? Absolutely _not. _It was a bit funny, but overall it was horrible and childish. After the movie, she played Hangman Junior. Those were the most torturous two hours of her life. Never again. Between all this dramas, she managed to stuff in an excessive amount of bathroom breaks (she found a bag of Heroine hidden in the bathroom's trashcan at some point and later in the same spot a bag of soiled diapers) and one trip to the pilot room (she tripped and caused a small commotion, much to her dismay).

Oh and there was this one hour that she dubbed 'the hour of hell.'

It happened at night. Amelia had been poking the good-for-nothing screen when, suddenly, out of nowhere, the plane was hit by strong turbulence. The plane vibrated and swerved, and the light for the seat-belt blinked on, and Amelia almost hit the ceiling. Someone yelped and actually fell and crashed into . . . something. There was a very loud crash, OK? She wasn't exactly paying attention. She was too busy buckling up, squeezing herself to the seat with said buckling, sitting stiffly in her large plane seat, heart pounding in her chest as she prayed to whatever higher being there was to _make it stop_. At some point the plane plummeted, making her stomach do something weird and the feeling of weightlessness encumbered her body. Maybe there was a loop involved, maybe not. All lights spontaneously turned off. People were screaming. Amelia's fingers gripped the side arm resters. Some people got into positions, leaning over the seat in front of them, covering their heads. She vaguely remembered the last time she was on a plane—the brochures that told you what to do in case of an emergency. She had neglected those in favor of being in denial and freaking out.

At the end of the wild roller-coaster ride (not that she knew what it felt to be in a roller-coaster, but she thought that this came quite close to one), someone found out that her cup of tea had ended up in the bathroom all the way up front, in First Class, somehow. The man who sat beside Amelia (she spent the whole flight leaning as far away as her seat possibly allowed) slept through the whole thing. Amelia would've thought him dead if it weren't for all the snoring and irregular scratching. Some whimpered. Bags loitered the aisles, empty cups and knickknacks spread all over. Children cried. Some adults nursed bumps and bruises. Amelia was sure that she spotted a basketball flying over the heads at some point, bouncing through walls and hitting people as the plane rolled. It had been a hellish hour of a nightmare, and the aftermath wasn't any better.

As soon as the rather violent turbulence passed, a gaggle of stewards immediately asked Amelia if she needed tea. Amelia, stiff as a board, shook her head no; what if it happened again? She was lucky that her cup had been relatively empty the first time. After that, no one bothered her anymore. The staff was busy dealing with everything else, thank God. She found their constant presence bothersome and annoying. Even more so when they tried starting a conversation with her; they never got a response, and thought that she was being rude.

Tossers.

But, at least, those eight hours of suffering were finally over. Amelia waited on the plane as the other passengers hurried to get out as fast as possible. She waited until the plane was completely empty. Through the small rounded half-lidded window, she saw a plane with the logo _American Airlines. _For a second there she thought of hiding somewhere and wait out until the plane flew back to London, but the mere thought of **eight more hours **made that urge disappear. A male flight attendant approached her, and Amelia followed him out of the plane, and onto the tube-like platform. They passed through Gate 3. They were greeted by the neatness of John F. Kennedy Airport.

Amelia was more than happy to leave that infernal flying deathtrap behind. She didn't want to step foot into _that thing _ever again.

Then she remembered that she wasn't in the UK anymore. Her heart constricted and grew heavy with sadness. Amelia didn't know why she was uprooted. She didn't know why they shipped her off to the other side of the world. Actually, there were many things in life that she didn't know, like why was life so hard, or just _why. _But, one thing she _did _know was that if she ever wanted to go back, Amelia would need to step into another plane to do so.

Life _sucked._

**A/N: Poor Amelia. Probably left her traumatized once again. Oh well. Next up, Amelia will be told ****_why _****she was uprooted to the US!  
**


	6. Of Airports, Confusion, and Relatives

**Ch4. Of Airports, Confusion, and Relatives**

If ever were there any three words that could describe how Amelia Kirkland felt at the moment, annoyed, grumpy, and jumpy would do more than cover it.

Amelia was currently suffering from extreme jet-lag, but the thing was, she was also suffering from severe anxiousness. The anxious bite that she felt overrode the jet-lag, rendering her too nervous to feel the time difference. So, in other words, those two emotions cancelled each other out, only letting a trickle of strong uncertainty out. With those two emotions battling it out, that left Amelia with a different emotion to deal with: anger.

Amelia was quite infamous when it came to her rather volatile temper, but this was a different sort of anger. This anger stemmed out of fear and confusion. She spent her whole life jumping around the country—her country—and here she was, right here right now, stuck in an American airport that was so crowded and noisy she couldn't even hear herself think. After retrieving her poor-excuse-of-a-suitcase, she followed a different staff person out the—the—she didn't know what it was called. The passengers spilled out of these doors and into this crowd that was being held back by a bar, security guards guarding the entrance. Passengers mingled with the crowd, some hugging, many greeting—a woman jumped into another woman's arms and they kissed each other senseless. Couples, family and friends reunited. Others beelined towards men and women with big signs that pertained to tourist groups. There were a few business handshakes, men in suits going straight to dealing.

Amelia found herself utterly alone within the tightly-packed buzzing crowd—the person she was following abandoned her with a "good luck" and left her. She swam through the crowd, trying and failing in avoiding getting pushed and stepped on by the towering adults, dragging her suitcase behind with some difficulty. The air grew stuffy and hot. Arses pushed her from side to side. Bodies pressed down on her, elbows collided with her head, and someone even shoved her from behind, causing her to stumble a bit. She felt itchy under her clothes. She quickly grew frustrated/panicky (_to hell with it!_) and decided to just barrel through in a straight line, ignoring the many surprised and indignant noises that squawked from interrupted mouths and trodden on feet.

She broke through the last line, stumbling. Hands on her knees, deep breath. Fresh air. Thank God. She looked up. People milled about from place to place. It was crowded, but at least there were huge gaps of space between each individual. Nothing like the tightly-knit pack from behind. Amelia glared at the sea of people over her shoulder. Bloody gits. She dragged her suitcase and herself away from the condensed pack of chattering fools, spotting and going towards a nice-looking rack of blue seats near a bunch of huge screens that displayed departure times and their destinations. She got there, chose an end seat, and leaned her suitcase against the front. She sat cross-legged. Waiting.

Waiting for what exactly, she didn't know. Now what?

As Amelia watched people pass by, many of which were talking loudly on cell phones or Bluetooth, she wondered not for the first time why was she even there, sitting down in _a bleeding American airport. _She was confused, annoyed, angered, and maybe a _little _afraid. Amelia bit her lip. She—she wasn't afraid. No, not at all. Just a bit . . . anxious, that's all. Being stranded in a foreign nation (not that foreign due to TV but that was beside the point she was still in a differently-cultured country) stuck alone, all on her own, for no apparent reason whatsoever. It all happened so suddenly and out of the blue. Amelia looked around nervously. She didn't like this. She didn't like this one bloody bit.

She wanted that cup of tea now.

A middle-aged man in a blue suit and a gold Rolex watch approached her. He stopped, hesitating. He had a paper in his hand. He squinted at Amelia, looked at the paper, and looked back up at her. The man, a blond-haired, brown-eyed person with a springy mustache and a bit on the pudgy side, seemed to make up his mind and reached her in a few, long strides. Amelia instinctively leaned back, shoulder blades digging into the slightly-plushed blue cloth. By God, he was _tall_.

"Ms. Amelia Elizabeth Kirkland from Great Britain?" he inquired. Amelia stared up at the freakishly tall man. The man frowned. He peaked at the paper, then looked back at her, squinting. "This _is _you, correct?" and Amelia's view was suddenly clouded by a paper with neatly typed font. Her bottle-green eyes zoomed in on a picture of herself, on the upper left corner. Amelia wondered where they got this picture. She certainly didn't remember getting any pictures taken. She peaked over the paper, and saw the expectant man. Amelia nodded, rather lost, if not a bit hesitant.

The paper receded.

"In that case: welcome to our wondrous United States of America, your new home."

Amelia simply stared. Words were still processing. The whole trip over was still processing, really. Anytime now . . . Anytime.

**OoooOoooOoooO**

As Amelia sat stiff as a board in the back seat of a cream-colored car, she found herself twitchy with unanswered questions. They'll eventually get answered, she knew, in the end. She would rather have a warning, but life liked to throw her head-first into things, without forewarning—like, for example, ending up in America of all places without being told in advance. Amelia's questions would get answered, if not by her eventual destination, then by her own means. She was quite good at research and finding things out. Whenever she wasn't stranded in a moving vehicle, that is.

Fortunately, the driver, the man with the mustache, not only had the job of taking her to a specific unknown location, but part of his job was to also debrief her.

Even if what she was hearing wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"Do you understand?"

Amelia stared, nonplussed. _What._

"Miss?"

_What._

"Do you understand that you will be living with relatives?"

_Relatives!_

"It says on your paper that you are to live in Boston, Massachusetts, with your relatives. You are one very lucky duckling."

_Oh_ _bite me! _Amelia's eyes narrowed, and made a small tsk noise.

Amelia was currently suffering from jet-lag, but the thing was, she was also suffering from severe anxiousness. The anxious bite that she felt overrode the jet-lag, rendering her too nervous to feel the time difference, but, again, she was but ten years old. She may have been alert and awake, but Amelia could feel the jet-lag in her bones like a light pinch of the fingers, barely there but still noticeable enough. Her anxiousness and tiredness combined to form a very grumpy child.

Lucky duckling. Honestly.

She was anything _but _lucky.

"Unfortunately, some papers got mixed up and you ended up in New York." The man chuckled. "You caused quite a commotion, young one."

_How the heck was that my bloody fault! _Amelia scowled, head slightly cocked.

"Oh well. At least you didn't end up in California, eh?"

Indeed. Still, fuck them.

"How 'bout some music?" The man did not wait for a response—not that there would have been any. Tacky country music emanated from the speakers, on full volume. "On our way to Boston, then! That's three hours and forty minutes to go~"

_Someone shoot me now._

**OooOooO**

Two hours plus some minutes and the same song looping at least fifty times later, a very drowsy Amelia felt about ready to throw up.

She had absolutely _nothing _in her stomach, the jet-lag was starting to weigh heavily on her tired bones, and she was getting motion sickness. It felt as if there was a burning hot liquid trying to go up her throat, staying stubbornly, lodged, sliding up and down. Eleven hours of travel done and over, forty minutes more to go.

_BROOOOOONGH BRONGH BROOOOOOOOUUUUNGGHH—_

Scratch that. Make that an hour and a half more to go. Amelia peaked out the window—cars upon cars, none of them moving, all of them complaining. She almost preferred the country music.

Almost.

Amelia shut her eyes, head leaning against the seat. She was getting a headache. She sighed. Bottle green eyes opened, weary. Like hell she was falling asleep _here. _Too many bad memories. The air was stuffy and _impossible. _She did what she should've done at least an hour ago; Amelia opened the window a smidge.

Fresh air slipped in.

_Oh my God, freedom._

The car may have been stationary, but it was quite windy outside. According to the radio, which was now set to the weather, they were calling for a storm. She peaked through the window and saw that they were currently on a wide bridge. Amelia made the gap wider, glass sliding down to her nose level. Cool wind with water particles caressed her skin, ruffled her hair. Amelia took one deep breath and held it for a few seconds—it smelled like charged pressure and heavy musky water. She closed her eyes, feeling the wind. It was moments like these that made her glad of being alive—this moment, this hour. This feeling of wonder and content, of higher understanding over the Universe. Nature, her ways, her rain, her storms—how grand and marvelous and _beautiful_. Amelia couldn't help but feel fascinated. How could one smell evoke such complex emotions, of wonder and instinctual joy?

Life held so many natural wonders.

Amelia sighed contentedly. She was getting a bit cold, but after hours of being confined inside metal contraptions, she found herself not giving a fuck.

_BRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOONNNNGH BRONGH BEEEP BRONGH BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—_

. . . She could live without the blasted honking, though. Amelia's face scrunched up, bothered by the sound. Americans had issues.

The window slid shut all on its own. She frowned, displeased and very much annoyed.

The driver did not offer an explanation, and Amelia did not prompt one. The mustached man had gotten the hint that she wasn't dealing with the likes of him. Or, at least, that's what Amelia gathered from the man's frustrated mutterings. Like many, the man had taken her silence personally. Idiot. Not that she _did _want to deal with the likes of him, so, in a way, it was a win-win situation.

Either way, she mourned the loss of fresh air and pre-rain smell. Amelia had half a mind to slide the window down, by force if necessary, but she honestly had no energy to spare. It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open as it was.

Finally, the cars up front started moving. They made their way off the bridge at an ant's pace.

"–_you play a __country song backwards_?_ Ya get your house back, ya get your dog back. Ya get your best friend Jack back. Ya get your truck back, ya get your—"_

_NO! NOT THIS SONG AGAIN! ANYTHING BUT THAT SONG NO NOT AGAIN! BLOODY HELL!_

Needless to say, Amelia Kirkland's trip to her new 'home' would be one to remember.

**A/N: So? How was it? TELL ME!**

**Next chappie, the Kirklands shall finally meet! Yay! Also, sorry about the odd creative honking. BEEEP sounded more like a high-pitched alarm clock so I did the thing.**


	7. The Apartment Above

**Ch6. The Apartment Above**

Amelia stared long and hard.

They had pulled over in front of a bar, the clinking of drinks and the chatter of patrons emanating from within. The building was grey and blocky, with a few cracks running down its body. It looked faded in appearance, though it gave off a unique 1920's vibe that made it look not _too _bad, giving it its own unique charm—especially with those vines creeping up the old building. For some reason, a smashed and broken television surrounded by bits of shattered glass sat where the pavement met the road.

The man at the wheel looked pretty confused, continuously glancing at the address and back at the slip of paper he had on hand.

"This doesn't look right."

Amelia remained silent, critically eyeing the bar from behind the glass barrier.

She usually didn't care where she ended up in—Amelia was far too used to moving around, going from dump to cardboard box to middle class dwelling in a span of one year—but, this time, well, this time was different.

She was here to stay.

And that scared her. It scared her more than she wanted to admit. Amelia always knew that the place she was staying in wouldn't be forever. What if they were like the rest? It wasn't as if this time she had the comfort of knowing that it would end, that she'd move on to the next family or orphanage, the cycle staring all over again. Amelia never had stability in her life, but she always managed somehow. In fact, that's all she knew, something she drew comfort from. She knew that she could survive as long as the next checkpoint was reached. This time, however . . .

Quite terrifying, really.

"Must be the apartment above," mumbled the American, stepping out of the car. The door was slammed shut. Immediately, Amelia also opened the door, stepped out, and slammed it shut—she exhaled loudly, feeling as if the whole ride had been ridden out without breathing, breath caught in her throat. Cars. Bad memories. She leaned against the machine, watching the man disappear inside the bar, most likely to ask for directions. Amelia waited, nervously fumbling with one of the strings that belonged to her green sweatshirt.

They . . . they wanted her, right? The man had hinted to _relations, _as in plural. A couple? And, how close were these relatives to her? How many cousins or uncles so many times removed? They said that there had been some kind of error in the system . . .

Amelia fidgeted. She didn't know how to deal with people. Would they be kind to her? She wasn't used to kindness, she didn't know how to react to such things. She had never been worthy of it in the first place.

"_We never wanted you here, brat. We only want the money that you come with, nothing more. Now go wash the dishes!"_

"_You are a no one. No one wanted you, so here we are."_

"_An orphan? Poor, useless thing."_

"_If you so much as look at anyone in this family, I am going to beat you so bad they'll arrest you at the airport for having someone else's passport!"_

"_Amelia can't talk cuz she's duuuumb!"_

"_We feed and clothe you, you disrespectful little—!"_

"_Tonight you sleep with me, vermin."_

A shiver ran down her back, a feeling of disgust towards herself welling up within. She was pathetic and a waste of space, dirty and unclean. What was she thinking? They probably never wanted her, the system forcing her pitiful self onto them! Yes, that could be it, it—

The man in charge of her re-emerged from the bar looking quite unsure, eyebrows drawn in in worry and a hint of disapproval. "According to the owners, they do indeed live upstairs—in fact, I believe that some of them work part time there …"

Amelia looked at the bar curiously. Music and conversation trickled out into the somewhat empty street.

The frown deepened. "… and, apparently, they are also regular customers," he added mostly to himself, none too pleased. "_Very _regular."

Oh. Okay. Alcoholics, then. Not her first rodeo in that department. _And surprise, surprise, my luck strikes yet again, _her sarcastic mind supplied her._ Except, this time, I'm actually related to whoever these people are. _Amelia was surprised to find herself feeling quite bitter at that last thought. She was getting a bunch of alcoholics. Again. Hopefully, they weren't violent. The last alcoholic she had to deal with had been. Very friendly when sober, which was never, but violent as all heck when drunk, which was around the clock. He never touched her, though. Amelia hid herself very well, so all that happened was that the house got thoroughly trashed multiple times, which she then had to clean while Mr. Ferguson was off nursing his hangover curled up pathetically on the couch. Poor sod.

A positive thing she got out of the routine was that Mr. Ferguson felt so guilty afterwards, Amelia got a regular supply of her choice of ice cream and scones. This had happened quite recently, just last year. Apart from mildly terrifying when the military veteran went on a rampage and she had to ride it out hidden in her hiding space (it was usually either the supply closet, which she blocked from the inside using the broom, or the space under the stairs, where she hid at the very end) as the house was torn to shreds and death threats were yelled at the ceiling (with her name added to the mix, making it more terrifying as things were thrown to the ground and vases were broken against the wall) her stay with Mr. Ferguson had been one of the most pleasant ones, despite her overall skittish nature around all male figures.

He sighed. The American got her suitcase out of the car with a grunt. "Oh well, off we go." He made his way off to the side, to the alley. She craned her neck, trying to get a better look. There was an old-looking wooden stairway escalating the side of the building, pouring into what looked like a small balcony, where a door was. He noticed that she wasn't following. He did a double-take, blinked, and then craned his neck to look at her. "What are you doing?" he said. "Come over, kiddo."

Amelia slowly trudged over, hesitation in her step. The man started his trek up the creaky stairs.

Amelia knew that the situation with Mr. Ferguson was not going to replicate itself. How, you ask? Well, first of all, Amelia was not the luckiest person on Earth. She got all the bad houses, whereas other kids got good ones or at the very least, decent ones. Not everyone, though. She once met a kid who ended up in an Oliver Twist style situation (which the authorities still don't know about) and another who actually got murdered and her internal organs sold in the black market.

Anita Creus. See, this is why Amelia didn't make friends. Anita had been her roommate for a short while before being shipped to her new home, as she had been adopted. She had been kind to the mute Brit.

Anita was the prime example of Amelia's motto: things could always get worse. Things could always _be_ worse.

Amelia frowned to herself. _What was I thinking?_ she admonished herself harshly. _I can't trust these people! They are probably like the rest … I've been lucky compared to Anita, but I'm also not exactly the luckiest. I'm so stupid! Stupid Amelia …_

Suddenly, a thought hit her.

_I don't want to stay here._

She planted herself half-way up the stairs, frozen.

_I don't want to stay here with them. _

Her breath got caught in her throat, hands gripping onto the railway.

There were too many unknowns. It was too final. No escape. She could always take it in stride, survive until she turned 18—hadn't she been doing that all her life? But did she really want to continue living this way? She didn't want to end up like Anita. She didn't want a Paul Carson, or a Weis family, or even another Mr. Ferguson. She didn't want more Prichards, though she had plenty of those already albeit not as bad. Not that there was anything good about the other ones.

"Kid? You okay?" the American suddenly called. _Yes, I'm fucking fantastic._ Amelia did not want anyone to see her face, so the Brit went down a step and sat down, scooching over to the wall. "Yes—perhaps that's better. Let the grown-ups talk. You stay there."

For once, she didn't have a sarcastic comment. She was more than willing to do just that, thanks.

She heard loud knocking. Amelia hugged herself, body hunched over. _I don't want to be here. _Nonetheless, she opened her ears, waiting. There was a pause. More knocking resumed, this time much more adamantly than the last. Again, nothing. The American huffed rather loudly, and then proceeded to practically bang on the door in quick bursts, impatience in his fist.

Heavy stomping was heard coming from within the structure, every footstep hit by dramatic and frustrated force.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp! _The door was unlocked and the doorknob turned. The door was violently lurched open. "WHAT?" shouted a very loud, slightly accented voice.

Amelia was glad no one could see her violently flinch.

"Ah, um, yes—good evening," the American fumbled, taken aback by the shout. "Are you—"

"Nae interested, nae buyin'," the male voice, now identified as Scottish, growled curtly. "Now bugger aff."

Amelia had always possessed of a sense of curiosity that had to be satisfied; she half turned her body, looking over her shoulder just in time to see the door being swung shut—the American (what was his name again?) shoved his foot between the door and the doorframe just in time, stopping the wooden barrier with a smacking sound.

"I'm not a salesman, sir." The American's smile never waned, though it appeared to be rather forced. "I'm from Child Protective Services, here to ensure the safe arrival of a minor."

There was a pause, pregnant silence. The door opened up slightly, hesitantly. Amelia couldn't get a good visual on the man, what with the door in the way. She did catch a flash of pale skin, though. And smell tobacco—she could make out some wispy white smoke being blown away. Amelia made herself small, pressing her body against the cool wall as much as possible—hiding herself completely from sight, thanks to that door. She listened, curiosity overriding her anxiety, if not a little.

". . . Ah dornt understand . . ."

The American cleared his throat. "Well,"

"Come off it, I dornt hae all bleeding day!"

"Yes, yes—it has come to our attention that—well, due to a mistake on our part, it seems that—ah, well,"

Her relation must've been very intimidating for the American to start stumbling like that.

There was a growl, which seemed to make the American _more_ flustered. Amelia wondered where all his initial contempt had gone—probably scared off, if she had to guess. Amelia was liking this less and less. But, then again, it was quite satisfying to see the man who had tormented her with country music and useless chatter for _hours_ get his just deserts.

"You have a sibling," the American finally got out.

Amelia's world froze. Say what.

_Sibling?_

There was a beat of silence. "So? I hae many siblings. Teel me somethin' ah dunnae know, eejit."

_Many_ siblings?

The American brought out a fat folder that appeared to have some paper edges sticking out, alongside an enveloped letter. He offered it to the man at the door who, if Amelia wasn't imagining things, was her _brother_. Her brother made no movement to take neither the folder nor the letter. God, this was so weird.

Her head was spinning. _I have a _brother_? I have _many_ siblings? What the bloody—_

"Your mother, Brittany Kirkland, had one last child before parting for the afterlife—since this child is your blood, a British-American liaison has decided to place this child in your and your brothers' care."

There was a pregnant pause. Then …

"So th' bitch is dead." The man's voice was cold and stiff. "Guid tae know. An' as fur 'er bastard, I'd raither nae be near it—goodbye."

But the American was persistent, leaving his foot where it was. Amelia didn't know what to feel; she wanted to cry, shrink within herself in shame, grow angry and punch something, and sit silently with indignation setting in her stomach, all at once.

"But sir—"

"There are awreddy enough mooths tae feed in this hoose, an' there's nae way aam lettin' that bitch's wee bairn stay wi' us."

The American's voice was stiff with an underlying tone of sadness. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland, but if you and your brothers decide to not take the child in, the necessary paperwork must be filed." He shifted. "The child must stay until then—good day, Mr. Kirkland."

And so, the American left Amelia's suitcase right in front of the man—her brother—and started to make his descent down the stairs, each step groaning under his weight. He paused in front of her.

"I'm sorry, kiddo."

He sounded genuine, too. And so the American left, leaving her behind.

A shiver ran down her back. Feeling like someone was watching her, Amelia turned to look up the stairs—and found herself being stared at by a red-headed man in his twenties that had a cigarette lodged between his lips, intense forest green eyes full of cold anger.

Not for the first time in her life, Amelia was scared of the person that was put in charge of her well-being.


End file.
